Cellulite... That's Right!

If there's one thing that should bond us women together, it's our cellulite.

SAY WHAT?!  Yeah, I said it.  Since nobody one else will!

80-95% of us have it (depending on which study you choose believe is most accurate.) That's a higher instance of commonality than anything else we as ladies share. 

Marital status, skin color, education, tax bracket... the only thing we women have most in common is undeniably our cellulite.  So why don't we ever talk about it?

Because it's a gross part of life that we'd like to forget is there. 

So, no, don't worry... I won't be trying to work cellulite into everyday conversation. (Got that, readers who actually know me personally?  There's no need to dodge into the nearest doorway/elevator/house plant the next time you see me coming.)  We're going to keep this to a one-time thing between you, me and the internet.  As it should be.

How many of you pick up the annual Cellulite Issue of that tabloid that you normally despise? I admit, I've never actually purchased these issues (just can't bring myself to feed the beast), but I've definitely sneaked a peek in the checkout line or if I find a loose copy left lying around the lunchroom.

Obviously, the tabloid magazines that make big bucks from their annual Cellulite Editions are doing it for the wrong reason.  They're officially in the business of knocking celebrities off of their pedestals and bent on ruining the lives of the privileged by whatever means ethical or not.  (Sidenote: That's why I've cropped all faces, captions and identifying features from the "backside" photos I've used here. It was done without their permission the first time around. I'm not about to be the repeat offender.)

But, let me tell you what I personally get out of peeking: The relief that we're all just as sexy as one another.  

If I would have captioned the accompanying pics, you may have been shocked to learn that these lumpy ladies being crucified in the tabloids are the same ones gracing the "Most Beautiful" covers of other publications. The same bombshell airbrushed in the swimsuit issue may be the next one featured on the cellulite edition's cover.

Go figure!  Even movie stars and divas are a part of the 95% of us.  We really do have something in common after all!  (And, those remaining 5% probably either lied during the survey process or are a part of the under-21 demographic.  They're not fooling us!)

My cellulite story started at a very young age. Probably early teens. That's when I started wearing swimsuits with skirty bottoms because I was one of the first of my peers to enter this passage of womanhood.  (Why couldn't the boobs have come first?!)

See, it does come on arms.
Even celebrity hottie ones!

It started on the butt and upper thighs, like it always does, and slowly crept it's way down past the knees over the following three decades.  As I get closer to 40, I'm finding it sneaks up in the most unexpected places like, Ack! My calves? What?! My arms!  I wouldn't be surprised if my ears were next. 

There's different kinds of cellulite, too. My personal brand is "skinny girl's cellulite". I've always been tall and small-boned, so unfortunately my cottage cheese has nowhere to blend within normal womanly curves. It just stands at attention, grasping to my skin as if it were in fear of falling off. (Little does it know, I'd be perfectly fine with it falling off!)

I've learned to dress to camouflage, but the "skinny girl" blend always gets the biggest reaction. People don't expect you to have it, because you look so "normal" when fully dressed. So, when that first trip to the beach, pool, spa, store dressing room with us catches them off guard, it is usually met with screams and stares. (Screams from the small children who don't know any better and stares from the shocked adults who are trying their darnedest to feign unfazed.)

In the winter, it's easy to forget about because we're covered up, shivering and forgetting to shave. (What? You're not from around here? You have to shave year-round? So sorry to hear...) But, the weather will eventually turn warmer and the cycle begins again. 

I'll buy a new pair of shorts that looked surprisingly great in the dressing room, but the truth is soon revealed in my obscenely well-lit bathroom. Swimsuit season jiggles in to greet us and I'm in a mad dash to find the last pair of swim-shorts in my size.  No more string bikinis here!

But, then the latest Celebs with Cellulite issue is released to save me just in time.  I can peek, feel at home with my famous fellow 95%-ers and be lifted back out of my shame spiral.  

What else are you gonna do? There is no cure. Yeah, there's expensive creams and treatments that really don't work. The latest trend being caffeinated lotions. I've considered trying a poor girl's version of rubbing Folgers Crystals around on my thighs, out of curiosity, but it just seemed too messy. Besides, if I did find a way to make it disappear then what would we all have to bond over?

So, why did I post this?  Some of you are probably saying this in your head, or aloud to one another as you snicker and judge me. If you haven't figured the answer to that question out yet, take a look at your own backside. I know I'm not the only one who takes a spin on the self-pity tilt-a-whirl this time of year. Misery loves company and so does cellulite. We're all in this together... at least 80% of of us. The rest of you can go eat a burrito while we join hands and ♫ We shall overcome...♫

If you take away nothing else, at least take away this: When you're people-watching at the beach this summer, don't gag and make jokes at others like the tabloid do. Remember that you're most likely sitting on a similar lump of Jello. When you catch your boyfriend or husband ogling the latest chick on the Maxim cover, don't get down, feel free to point out that if he flipped her over, odds are, she's as lumpy as you are.  

If you made it this far, and you're a daring soul... I'm not letting myself off the hook that easily. Since I've exploited the backs-of-thighs of the rich and famous, it's only fair that I exploit my own. Below, I give you:

My Cellulite.

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You're welcome!

 (And, yes, macaroni and cheese was consumed during the making of this post.  It was GOOD!)

Birds of Fury: A True Underdog Story

One of the beauties of living in Michigan is sharing the land with the majestic Red-tailed and Cooper's hawks.  You don't have to reside near the forest or farmlands to find them either.  There's enough chipmunks, mice, toy poodles and rats in the suburbs to keep the hawks soaring our skies just as frequently.

The oddest place I have regular hawk sitings, though, is at my office's parking lot.  My workplace is located in the most uber of suburban locations.  A setting filled with nothing more than office complexes, restaurants, big box stores and asphalt.  What they hunt there is beyond me.  Egg McMuffin wrappers?  Pen caps?  Stray staples?

Still, as I eat lunch in my car every weekday, above me they soar.  If I leave my sun roof open, I can even get one to start circling me! I don't know if it's my PB on wheat they're interested in or the fleshy allure of my German nose, but it should go without saying that I don't leave my sunroof open much anymore.  (Besides, I'd hate to imagine the disappointment of the predator upon realizing that there's more cartilage than meat up in there.) 



Mmmm... meaty.  My nose, in car, at lunch.

Anyhoo, the hawks have become just lovely but ordinary parts of the backdrop at this point in my life.  Until I was pulling out of the parking lot last week and before me stretched a brand new scene.

Picture it:  A lone hawk glides across the sky, tipping a wing to take his graceful turn around a giant cross.  (Yes, there's a giant, million-foot tall cross jutting out of the ground at the church across the way. Structured out of, what looks like, some strange mix of steel and PVC piping.) 

Something seemed to be interrupting his peaceful flight, though.  He'd soar and then scoot.  Soar and then double-scoot.  Soar, then jerk suddenly from one side to the other.  It's rare to even see a hawk flap a wing, so I wondered what could be wrong?  Was he having a mid-air seizure?  A bad case of the hiccups?

Then I noticed two other objects.  Littler in size and fluttering busily around him, somehow managing to disrupt the mighty bird's flight.

I was waiting in line to make a left turn (a process that usually takes at least five minutes to perform in rush hour traffic.)  So, as I idled, I felt safe enough to take my eyes of the road and squint more closely into the sky.

The smaller objects were flying clumsily, at a rate of a hundred flaps to the hawk's one. The sloppy flight pattern made me think they were bats at first, but then I saw the first bite. 

Yes, I could see it now, they had beaks!  These were birds.  Larger than sparrows, smaller than breadboxes.  Their flight, more strenuous in a higher altitude than the norm and their bodies slightly shaky from adrenaline... but these were birds. Chasing their predator.  IT WAS AWESOME!

Like I said, I was driving at the time and could hardly pull out my cell phone to document the fight while trying to simultaneously merge with traffic.  But, if my memory is as photographic as I'd like to give it credit for, the scene played out exactly like this:

(The combat helmets might be a fuzzy misremembering, but I'm pretty sure the tiny aviators were real.)

Every fifty flaps or so, one of the pair would catch up to get it a good peck or nip, as if to say "Ain't no birdie got time for that!" and then fall back again behind the mightier bird's speed and power.  They never gave up though. Catch up, bite. Fall behind, flap like mad. Repeat.  Little dive bombers, ticked off and unafraid.  (And, don't forget, the whole while circling the cross of the Lord our Savior... which I absent-mindedly forgot to include in my illustration.)  A cinematographer's dream, I'm sure!  An underdog action scene in the realest sense.

I finally had to turn left and pull away because the traffic behind me was beginning to think I was heavily sedated, forgetting to inch my way forward and pry my way into rush hour.  Face glued skyward with mouth most likely agape.  But, the little guys weren't giving up when I pulled away, which left me feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.

I later described what I saw to my mom, who said she had seen the exact same scene play out in a totally different neighborhood earlier this summer.  This led me to Google "small birds attacking hawks" and I found out that this sight isn't so uncommon after all.

I found this;

(Images via onejackdawbirding.blogspot.com)

And this:

And many more images that were either copyright-protected or I was too lazy to download.

You gotta love that spunk, though!  I gather these hawks have long been terrorizing the small bird community and the tiny and brave created lynch mobs as retribution for their fallen friends, family and feathered young.

The top of the Great Lake State's food chain has always consisted of coyotes, bears, humans and birds of prey.  But, it somehow levels things out to learn that the bottom fraction of the chain are scrappy little links, that are taking none of this lying down!